Assiette
by coffeeandcas
Summary: When Will finds nothing but exhaustion in the world, Hannibal is there to provide all the comfort he needs - in all the ways he's never considered before.


**Monday.**

"Who is that guy?" The kid asks, and Will turns mechanically to follow the point of his chubby finger.

The crime scene is winding down now. The body has been carefully brought down from where it was found hanging, a hook from a stable tack room embedded through the left ankle and the face fiercely mutilated to become unrecognisably grotesque. CSIs in blue uniforms and white masks mill around, a small camera crew is filming a distance away, and Hannibal leans against his Bentley, examining his nails and looking entirely out of place in the cold, dank forest.

"He's…" Will cuts himself off before he can say 'my psychiatrist'. It doesn't seem prudent, especially if this kid is familiar with the work of Freddie Lounds. Who knows what conclusions he would draw and who he would speak to? His rucksack proudly displays a pin claiming 'Crime is my bag!' and he's precocious enough that three CSIs have already waved him and his questions away.

"He's no-one." Will finishes up lamely, and the kid gives him an odd look. "You shouldn't be here, anyway. Go home."

"I found her!" He proclaims proudly, jabbing himself in his portly chest with a finger. "I'm involved now! I'm a witness, you need to take a statement!"

Will knows full well that the kid has already been questioned by police, and that Jack has his eye on him. So he does the only thing he can do, and turns away. The kid protests, loudly, but is soon shepherded away with his bike in tow and Will rubs the back of his aching neck. He feels as though he's got a curfew and he hates it. He goes to find Jack to complain about that fact, wishing Hannibal would just get into his car and drive away.

"I'm leaving."

"Hannibal's driving you." It isn't a question. Jack doesn't ask him questions much these days; he just demands his answers instead.

"Yes."

"Where's your car?"

"At home."

"I see." When no elaboration comes, Jack sighs and dismisses Will with a nod. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Fine."

He ducks under tape and avoids a reporter, simultaneously exhausted and wired as though he's taken cocaine. Not that he's ever needed to dabble in such drugs to feel what he imagines are similar effects: his mind can provide that all by itself. The leaves crunch and squelch beneath his boots and his breath clouds before him. He rubs his cold hands, wishes for gloves. Hopes the heated seats in the Bentley are on already, because cold leather would only make him more irritable.

Hannibal says nothing to him as he approaches, but opens the passenger door and Will sinks gratefully into warm leather and picks up the travel mug of coffee from the centre console without prompting. It's rich and bitter on his tongue and he savours the flavour, chasing the burn. Hannibal starts the engine and the car purrs happily.

"I'm no-one?" Hannibal asks mildly, making his way slowly through the tangle of reporters and concerned citizens.

"And I thought it was just your sense of smell that's exceptional." Will turns his face away from the window and the flash of a camera.

"I'm flattered that you consider anything about me to be exceptional at all."

They're on the road now, heading back towards the town, and in the approaching dusk the lights look like fireflies.

"Don't fish for compliments. It doesn't become you." He snaps back, tired and rubbing his temples. They pass a gas station on their right, and the man getting out of the battered Citroen could have been Garrett Jacob Hobbs, or it could have been a trick of the light. Will doesn't know, and he's too tired to care.

"Would you like to join me for dinner? Or shall I return you to your own home?"

The dogs will be missing him. What time did he last feed them? Will they have messed on the floor? Torn each other to shreds? Not noticed how long he's been gone? Hannibal's fingertips brush his thigh; he's waiting for an answer. He blinks, mind hazy. What was he just thinking about?

"Dinner sounds…" He glances down. Hannibal isn't touching him, his hand rests on his own leg. Did he imagine it? "Fine. Great. I'd like that. Thank you."

"Excellent. Do you have a moral objection to foie gras?"

"No. I'll eat anything. When you do the job I do…"

He trails off, not knowing what the end of that sentence was. If he says he doesn't have the mental capacity to worry about cruelty to animals in the face of the cruelty he witnesses on an almost daily basis, what sort of person does that make him? He doesn't tug on that thread too much, and turns his head to gaze out of the window.

Apart from his head turns the opposite way, and he finds himself staring at Hannibal instead. At the cut of his suit, the way the collar of his shirt hugs his throat, the precise knot of his tie. The angle of his jaw and his lashes as he blinks with the kind of deliberation only Hannibal can possess. As though he puts active thought into every blink, every breath. As though nothing at all happens without his explicit consent and prior knowledge at the most base of levels, not even his own cellular reproduction. It would be just like Hannibal to demand that type of control over his own body.

No, not demand. Request. A request delicately worded yet spoken softly as a command. A caress. Or does he only speak to Will this way?

The hand on his thigh now is unmistakeable and he spreads his legs a little, hoping. Encouraging. But when nothing happens, he just sits there and watches the light play across Hannibal's face as he drives, listens to Bach on the radio, feels gentle circles drawn on his skin through a worn denim barrier. Feels secure. Feels like he's falling.

Feels.

 **Wednesday.**

There's a stag in his dreams. A black stag with antlers too large for its head, that make it look doleful as it takes one shaky step at a time.

The presence of the stag itself isn't unusual, but the red eyes and blood dripping from its torn lips are. It looks broken, pleading, lost beyond any hope. He can't save it, and he knows he won't even try.

Will is standing naked in the middle of the road, the sun burning hot while the stars sparkle above him. It's simultaneously night and day, winter and summer at the same moment, the falling leaves crunching beneath his toes and his breath clouding, yet his skin burns in the sun before his eyes. Someone is whispering to him, his hair is being caressed by the wind or by someone's gentle fingers, he can't tell which. He tilts his head, watching the stag approach him. It turns, and the side of its face is grotesquely mutilated, the eye socket empty and the jawbone exposed. He glances down at its legs, and there's a heavy hook through one of them, dragging along the road. He meets its eyes again and feels blood drip down his forehead into his eyes.

The whispering grows louder. Sensitive psychopath. Who? Him? He breathes deeply, smells blood and decay.

Everything turns red and liquid. Something heavy rests on top of his head, presses to be centre of his forehead. He blinks and Hannibal smiles at him. Blinks again and Garrett Jacob Hobbs is reaching for him.

See? Someone asks him. See? See…?

"No," he whispers. "No, I don't. I can't."

Will…

His consciousness wavers, threatening. Someone's hand is in his, and he feels the chill of the breeze from the open window on his skin. The window he threw open before bed.

Will…

"Yes?"

"Will…?"

The ceiling stares back at him, off-white and faded. The stag's eyes burn for a moment, brightly, then one fades at a time until he's left staring at empty space and gripping the sheets tightly.

No, not just the sheets. The sheets in his left hand but his right…

"Forgive me, Will." Hannibal is sitting on the edge of his bed and Will manages to blink himself awake. "You were having a nightmare. I thought it wise to wake you from it."

"How did you get in?" He pushes himself up on his elbows, glances around. His hair is plastered to his face with sweat, his t-shirt almost translucent. It's light, so past the time he would normally wake up. Why haven't the dogs come in demanding breakfast yet?

"Would you believe me if I said the door was unlocked?"

Hannibal leans forward and brushes Will's hair back off his face. For some unfathomable reason, Will lets him.

"No. I locked it last night." This morning. Two AM. Sleepwalking again.

"Good. You're not so easily fooled. I've always admired that about you."

"And I've always admired your honesty. How did you get in?"

"I unlocked the door."

"How?"

"You gave me a key." Hannibal gives him a slightly strange look. "You don't remember?"

"Do I look as though I remember?" Will sits himself up fully, rubs a hand through his hair in agitation, and casts about feverishly. "What time is it?"

"Midday. You missed your appointment, so I thought I should come and check on you."

"You drove all the way out here just to check on me?"

He pushes the sticky, damp sheets away from his legs and stands up. Hannibal has to steady him with sure hands on his hips as he sways. He feels feverish, nauseous, hyper-aware of everything yet almost dreamlike. Hannibal's thumbs are on his bare skin, beneath his t-shirt, stroking in gentle circles. When he's released, Will misses their warmth. To hide his confusion, he strides to the window yet has to grip the sill to prevent himself from toppling sideways. The shining Bentley gleams outside and the sun is high in the autumn sky. The dogs roam happily outside, and he wonders how long Hannibal has been in his house.

"They have eaten well," It's as though his mind has been read. "Liver and heart with wild rice and Chantenay carrots." He doesn't ask where the organs came from, would prefer not to know. "And they have spent a pleasant hour in the sun. Should I call them in for you?"

Even the simple request is said with persuasion. Hannibal thinks they should be called in, so Will should acquiescence. He does, without much thought.

"Please."

Hannibal is behind him all of a sudden, close against his back, breath warm on the exposed slice of skin at Will's neck. The lightest touch ghosts down his spine to linger above the waistband of his boxer shorts, then fingertips creep just beneath the fabric. Will inhales sharply, audibly.

"That word sounds beautiful from your lips," Hannibal's mouth is right by the sensitive shell of his ear, the words spoken like a caress, and Will shivers, breath still held. "I imagine there are a great may ways you could say it, and a great many meanings it could hold. I would love to explore the possibilities… one day…"

Hannibal leans down, presses a feather-light kiss to Will's neck, squeezes his hip, then he's gone and the bedroom door is closing, and Will exhales so hard and so fast that a wave of dizziness crashes through him. He's hot and hard between his thighs and presses a palm against himself, willing his body to calm down. His nostrils flare with each inward breath, and from the window he can now see Hannibal standing on the path, calling the dogs in and waiting until they all trail past and into the house before he turns to follow them.

He glances up and meets Will's eyes for just a second, and a smile touches his lips. Then his eyes drop down Will's body and even though he knows the window sill is blocking his erection from view it's apparent that his arousal hasn't gone unnoticed. He wants to turn away from the window, but he's trapped. Pinned by Hannibal's intense stare. So he does the only thing he can think of, and he closes his eyes.

The stag flashes, blood red, against his closed eyelids and his cock pulses against his palm. He hears Hannibal's delicately accented voice whispering to him, crooning, and his skin burns where lips had touched his neck and fingers had caressed his skin. He bites his lip.

When his eyes fall open once again, Hannibal's Bentley is gone, leaving only tyre tracks in the dirt and the remnants of Will's arousal sticking cotton to skin.

 **Saturday.**

Will walks the dogs in the early morning mist. Behind him, the glows burns like a ship on fire, every light burning in every window. A travel mug of coffee is clasped in both his cold hands, warming his throat as he sips it. Winston barks somewhere, snuffles, digging in the dirt.

His thighs ache. Every step reminds him of something he's been trying to forget since it happened, but for reasons he doesn't want to admit to himself. Hannibal had kissed him deeply, listened as he confessed his deepest desires and then given them to him, and now he can't believe his guard was let down so far. He both craves and fears Hannibal, the way he craves and fears what he allowed the older man to do to him last night. To give to him. To take from him.

He throws a stick and three dogs chase it wildly. He had crept out of bed, barely dressed, and left Hannibal sleeping deeply next to the warm indent where his own body should be. The older man reached for him as he left, sighed in his sleep but hadn't woken. At least, Will doesn't think so. The shadow at the window he had seen when he glanced up could have been anything or anyone. Hannibal? Likely. Garrett Jacob Hobbs? More likely. Nothing but his mind playing tricks? Well, naturally.

He walks further, cold in his odd ensemble of hiking boots, boxer shorts and t-shirt. He shouldn't stay out here long, he doesn't want to catch a chill. Something else for Hannibal to fuss over is not what he needs. Yet a part of him conjures up the image of himself being fed chicken soup in bed, milk and cookies by the fireside wrapped in a blanket, of warm hands mopping his feverish brow and a firm chest holding him as he dozes. It's not an unpleasant scenario, and he wonders just how masochistic it would be to stay out here just long enough to become ill in the hope that it all comes true. He wonders how angry Hannibal would be with him, and if it would all be worth it or not. He suspects he already knows the answer to that, and turns back towards the house.

"Will?"

Will's eyes fall closed at the sound of his voice, warm and comforting and pulling him home. He opens them and Hannibal is right there in front of him, regarding him with that typically calm detachment that had been so absent during their coupling mere hours ago. He doesn't think he'll ever forget those expressions, nor forgive himself if he never sees them again. He's fully dressed of course, in his suit, tie and waistcoat, and he draws Will close to him with nothing more than a gentle touch to his hand.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. No. Don't ask me."

"You don't like what we did this morning."

"Last night." Why does it matter?

"It was past midnight when I undressed you." Hannibal lifts their joined hands, kisses Will's knuckles. "And close to two AM when you orgasmed."

"Don't say that." His cheeks flame. Winston cocks his head and Will shoos him away in agitation.

"Why not? It's what happened. What you wanted to happen, no?"

Will says nothing, just stares off into the distance at the house. He remembers the slide of skin on skin, the heat of Hannibal's mouth, their impassioned kisses and the feverish thrusting of their bodies. Hannibal on top and Will below, then reversed, repeated, on and on, and he's panting now at the memories.

"I wanted it," he hears himself say. And I want it still. I want you more than I dare to confess.

Hannibal tugs him closer and kisses his neck slowly, deeply, and Will melts into his arms. He grips Hannibal's two-thousand-dollar jacket with one hot fist and holds on as though the world is about to be pulled from beneath his feet. Then, frantic, he finds Hannibal's mouth and kisses him ferociously, panting into his open mouth, his coffee cup falling to the ground, forgotten as he pours all his desperation and fear and anger and need into the kiss and feels Hannibal's arms wrap around him in response. He's pulled tight to the older man's body, held, kissed deeply, and he's torn between acquiescing to his desires and pushing Hannibal away so hard that he sees mud splash the perfect suit as he falls to the ground. He wants to have him, possess him, own him, yet be his in such a way that nobody could ever take him away again. The terror of being alone mingles with the anger at having his solitude so interrupted and he sinks his teeth into Hannibal's bottom lip and a hand tugs at his hair in response.

"Come back to bed," Hannibal whispers against his jaw and Will shoves at his chest.

"You don't get to invite me back into my own home," he murmurs, yet finds himself following, dragging, being dragged, desperate. The dogs are ahead of them and behind them and crowd them as they stumble through the door.

"Your skin is cold," Hannibal's kisses are searing. "You were outside too long."

"So?" Wills strips his t-shirt off, throws it across the room angrily. "Warm me up. Or are you bored of me already?"

They have sex again, slow and heated on the rug in front of the dying fire, and Will cries out through gritted teeth as he comes. Their skin is sticky with sweat and semen, and Hannibal kisses him as though tomorrow may never come.

Later, when the sun comes up and he finally sleeps, he dreams of fire and warmth and nothing and everything all at once.


End file.
